


Cath Bawlg

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon, M/M, POV Outsider, Post 5X13, Post-Canon, Quest, h/c, pre-5x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandomaid auction fic  for lostandalone22"   Takes place before 5x5 and post 5x13; Merlin's hurt; everybody rallies around him.<br/>Dear lostandalone22, of the prompt you gave me, I selected this part because it gave me a larger time-frame to build a story around: <i> Arthur and the knights taking care of Merlin, or Merlin with hypothermia or illness on the road with Arthur and the knights taking care of him. </i> If you wanted a 4x1 specific fic you need only ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cath Bawlg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LostandAlone22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostandAlone22/gifts).



> Beta-read by the lovely , who's a magic beta  
> If you're wondering, the Cath Bawlg is a mythical Arthurian monster.

 

“I can't believe we're here again after fifteen hundred years,” Arthur said, scanning the lake shores for any peculiarities. There was not a ripple yet.

“I can’t believe the Cath Bawlg reproduced, and we have to hunt down another man-eating monster in this day and age!”

Arthur lifted his sword. The weapon still looked strange pitted against his jeans and trainers. “Well, I can believe it.”

“You would.” Merlin smiled and gave a head shake. “You've always liked going questing.”

Arthur gave him an odd look. “Not when something happened to you. Remember the last time the Cath Bawlg struck?”

 

*****

 

“Go,” Sir Leon said, “go find some branches long enough to be poles and fetch a blanket.”

Godric objected, “But, sir, poles! I can't carry poles.”

Sir Leon was a mild mannered master; that was one of the reasons Godric hadn't walked out on the job and gone back to his home village. Unlike most knights and the King himself, Sir Leon didn't require much. Attending him was easy. He never wanted you to follow him on his military missions, (like Merlin was required of his lord), he didn't need Godric to valet for him, and he didn't ask for Godric to attend to his horses or his laundry or all the little things that seemed to fall within Merlin's purview even when they shouldn't. All Godric had to do was the odd spot of fetching and carrying, serve breakfast, and make sure Sir Leon's lodgings, less grand in size than the other knights' and consequently manageable enough, were tidy.

But apparently things were starting to change. First Sir Leon had asked Godric to squire for him on this occasion when a young knight hopeful would have better served his purposes. After all, this mission involved defeating a monster that had been terrorising the countryside and Godric, who'd never lifted a weapon in his life nor ever wanted to, was perfectly useless in such a bind.

(He wasn't as stupid as Merlin, who risked far too much – always venturing forth with armoured knights when in his normal clothes – for far too little. Even though Merlin was, technically speaking, the highest ranking servant in the palace, he was still only a servant and shouldn't be subjected to the dangers of war just because his master – like most masters – was selfish enough to require mollycoddling at all times.)

And now Godric was being asked to fetch a load he would never be able to carry. Getting two branches long enough to serve as poles was asking too much of him. 

Sir Leon, not seeming to agree with Godric's assessment, scowled. He seldom did this, being mostly calm at all times, but now he was clearly anxious. “Godric, you will have to,” he said in a level voice that was clipped enough to make Godric understand how serious he was. “Merlin's too ill to walk. He fell into a freezing lake; the King tells me he's running a fever. So you will go and fetch branches to build a stretcher.”

Godric sneaked a glance at his colleague. Merlin was lying on his back, shaking and hugging himself, his body the same grey colour of an angry sky in winter, his face red with the sparks of a fever. He was currently trying to sit up, rambling something about needing to “get up. You're breaking camp. I need to get up.”

The King was kneeling at his side, knees deep in mud and mush. He was trying to press Merlin down, saying, “Don't be stupid, Merlin. You can't continue like this.”

“You're g--” Merlin was clearly having trouble enunciating. His jaw was chattering uncontrollably “G-going to face that Cath Balwg thing. I must come.”

“And what could you possibly do?” the King – justly, Godric himself thought so – asked. 

Merlin didn't seem to be listening. “Come,” he slurred. “I want to come with you.”

Godric saw the King exchange a look with Sir Gwaine. Sir Gwaine shook his head, and the King pressed Merlin down again. 

Merlin went, lying back on his sleeping roll, but Godric could see it was just because he wasn't strong enough to put up much opposition rather than because he'd accepted the King's verdict. This was an oddity of Merlin. He somehow never – or seldom – did what he was told yet managed to retain his job in spite of that. If Godric tried such an attitude, he'd be turned out with no reprieve. 

“No, Merlin, and that's an order,” the King, meanwhile, continued.

“B-but--” Merlin tilted his head at the King, and for a moment Godric could read the despair in his eyes. What the despair was for was a mystery. “The monster in the lake. It can... It can. I have to stop it.”

The King palmed Merlin's forehead. “You're making less sense than usual.”

The King's lips got pinched, and Godric could understand why. Though Godric could still get at what Merlin meant, in a roundabout way since Merlin himself wouldn't be doing any killing but rather assist his lord in the slaying, it was clear that his thought processes were getting muddled. 

Now Godric remembered quite clearly the time a boy from his village fell into a lake in winter. At first he'd trembled and shaken a lot, then the shakes had subsided, and he'd grown stiller and stiller. In a matter of hours the boy had developed a fever, and later a racking cough; two days after the accident his lungs were so full of his own phlegm he died.

Godric wasn't really Merlin's friend. Nobody at the palace really was. Merlin spent too much time with the King and too little with his equals for him to have made many friends. In the kitchens, he was seen as a bit of a traitor. Someone who could rub shoulders with the nobility, in particular Sir Gwaine, but also the King as though he was – unthinkable thought – an equal. The King could always be heard complaining about Merlin's shoddy work, but most kitchen hands had stopped believing anything would come of those complaints. 

Hadn't the king married a servant after all? The King, for all that he maintained social distinctions – especially where everyone else was concerned – blithely ignored conventions when he wanted to. He always wanted to when it came to Merlin. 

As for the the stable-boys – especially one Tyr – they were in awe of Merlin and wouldn't have dared approach him because they saw him as the next best thing to the King. That was fantasy, of course. Surely, a noble was more important than a manservant, though the manservant had access to the King from dawn till dusk – and often beyond. But the fact remained, stable-boys thought Merlin important and lost their speech when he lazed about in the stables.

The other servants either bullied Merlin or respected his rank as the King's.... everything, really. Jack of all trades, manservant, fool, sometimes groom, sometimes nurse. (Some said Merlin, using his position as physician's assistant, which made him a little better than a common unlettered servant, would become what Gaius had been to the late King Uther). 

Like most of the others, Godric wouldn't call himself Merlin's friend. They scarcely ever spoke. Godric literally ran into Merlin every time the latter was busy on an errand and thus pressed for time, rushing down corridors to do the triple goddess knew what. But that didn't mean Godric wanted Merlin dead. 

“Sir,” said Godric to Sir Leon, who, like Godric himself had turned around to hear what was going on between the King and Merlin. “I'll go if I can just get some help.”

Sir Leon would probably have given Godric a patient answer if the King hadn't called out in a rough voice. “Leon, where's that stretcher? I want him taken back to Gaius!”

“It's being seen to, My Lord.” Leon cocked his head at Godric. “Go, now,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the thick of the forest. “Just go!”

Godric went.

**** 

“Stop!” Arthur called, pulling on his reins.

Ranulph’s horse almost fetched into Arthur's at the sudden order. “What's the matter, Sire?” he asked. “I thought we were making good time?”

“We need to stop,” Arthur said. “We're making camp.”

Ranulph looked at the sky. The sun was still up, and they had a few hours' march still ahead. If they pressed on, they would reach the bifurcation in the road that would allow them to split up. Sir Gwaine would ride with Merlin back to Camelot. The rest of the company would take the road that doubled back towards the lake and the monster they had to slay. “There's still a few hours daylight left,” Ranulph pointed out.

Arthur quieted his horse with a knee to its flank. “I said we're making camp.”

Ranulph couldn't see how this made sense. “Sire!”

Arthur dismounted and gave him a sharp glance. “Are you countermanding my orders?”

Elyan passed his hand under his chin in a 'cut-throat' manner. Given the angry spark in Arthur's eyes, Ranulph said, “No, sire.

Like Arthur, he dismounted.

Half an hour later they were all sprawled around the fire, passing each other bowls of soup Leon's servant had ladled out. 

Arthur wasn't among them. He stood apart, standing among the horses. He fixed the length of his mount's stirrup, and when he was done, he patted his horse's side, and stalked up to Leon's boy – Godwin, Godric, G-something. 

The servant poured a larger portion of soup into Arthur's bowl, humbly looking down when the piece of earthenware changed hands. Bowl in hand, Arthur walked back to the fire and prodded his own manservant's foot with his boot.

“Up, Merlin,” Arthur said. Ranulph was about to feel bad for the boy given that he looked like he was at death's door until Arthur opened his mouth again. “You always complain about there not being enough hot food when we go questing. Here's soup.”

Ranulph stopped eating, the morsel of dried meat he'd cut off for himself dangling from his fingers. He watched, mouth probably still open, as Arthur, soup bowl momentarily set by, settled behind Merlin and manhandled him into such a position he was resting with his back propped by Arthur's torso, his legs stretched between Arthur's. 

Merlin tiredly opened his eyes, lashes flickering between blinks. “Wh--” he said. His lips were pale and stretched thin. His cheeks had the high colour you got after a hearty run or when you were ill. This seemed to be the case, obviously, since he'd been fished out of a half frozen lake with water crystallising over him. Without Arthur's dive and Gwaine's assistance (stabbing his sword in the ice as leverage had been quite brilliant), Merlin wouldn't have been here at all now.

Arthur picked up the bowl he'd put by and pressed it against Merlin's lips. “Eat,” he said curtly.

Merlin turned his head away. “No, I-- the monster, Arthur.”

Arthur splayed his palm across Merlin's forehead while still holding the bowl to his mouth. “I don't even remember when you last ate, idiot. The monster can wait. Really I don't know how you survived this long.”

Ranulph couldn't quite believe his eyes, or ears for that matter. There Arthur was, feeding his manservant, grumbling about it even though he patiently waited for Merlin to swallow and not choke up. It took the longest time for Merlin to finish half of his bowl but Arthur didn't desist, and managed to get him to gulp down at least three quarters of it before Merlin fell back against Arthur's shoulder. 

A few hours later when a blanket of darkness had fallen over their camp, Ranulph, who hadn't been able to sleep in order to properly process what was going on, walked over to Arthur. 

Normally, he wouldn't have dared approach him at such an hour – once maybe he would have given free rein to such a whim. Nowadays he'd made circumspection the rule. But since Arthur was clearly awake, his eyes catching the firelight, his head turned towards his sleeping manservant, Ranulph decided to throw circumspection to the wind.

As he crossed over to Arthur, a twig snapped under Ranulph's boot and Arthur's hand went to the dagger Ranulph knew he'd concealed in his boot. When Arthur saw who it was that had joined him he relaxed and Ranulph sat down next to him. “I knew that taking that border posting would have taken me from the heart of Camelot, but things have changed far more than I would have thought.” He cast a glance at Merlin.

Merlin was rasping and breathing with obvious difficulty. Alerted by the pained noises, Arthur craned his head towards him, adjusted his blanket, fussed for a moment or two more with a dissatisfied air, and when he could do nothing more to ease Merlin, he started fiddling with the dagger he hadn't sheathed back. “I don't know what you're talking about, Ranulph.”

Ranulph put a hand up, keeping the other laxly draped across his knee. “We know each other well, Arthur.”

Arthur stiffened. “I thought--”

“I promised I'd never mention it again and I haven't,” Ranulph reassured Arthur. They had grown up together. After a while they'd also grown apart, perhaps a natural consequence of adulthood and difference in status – a mere minor noble and a man destined to be king – but despite that closeness Ranulph had no wish to re-create the past. There was no need to stir things up now. Yet he couldn't help noticing things. “I'd have said he's replaced me, but you weren't like this with me. Or anybody, honestly.”

Arthur chose not to address that. “Merlin is ill because he chose to save me from a gigantic monstrous cat that haunts a lake that was half frozen. Should I ignore that? What sort of man would I be if I did?”

Ranulph didn't take the honour bait. He'd lived side by side with Arthur for long years. He'd been there before Arthur was King. Before he was Crown Prince. He knew this man well enough not to. “Does your wife know?”

Arthur's clapped his eyes on him, wide and reproachful. “You think I would betray my wife?”

“So you have her consent?” Ranulph hadn't taken a wife because he knew such generosity of spirit was rare. Queen Guinevere, though, may be just that kind of rare exception.

Arthur's shoulders formed as stern a line as they had when he'd heard someone move towards him and he'd been ready to attack. “I keep no secrets from Guinevere.”

Ranulph pondered that. He believed it. He believed Arthur would only act while knowing he was hurting no one. Still, a servant, another one, one who couldn't be elevated through marriage. He wondered what had changed Arthur. 

Part of the reason for Ranulph taking that border posting had been his infatuation for this man, an infatuation both King Uther and Ranulph's own father had noticed. “It will never go anywhere,” Ranulph's father had said. Though it had gone somewhere, boyish passion reaching its heights over a handful of summers, they had been right. Arthur couldn't have. How could he have explained Ranulph to the public?

Yet he'd taken a servant for his Queen and apparently his manservant was more than just his manservant. The Arthur of old would have scorned both for their birth, while accepting Ranulph as more of a temporary equal. Now things were topsy turvy. A handmaiden was Queen. A serving boy made the King tremble for his fate, and Ranulph had grown distant.

He didn't say as much though it was clearly between them, what with Arthur looking away and his colour heightening. 

“It's hardly something I would have thought possible,” Ranulph said.

Ranulph could clearly remember the way Arthur had treated Morris, the man who'd had Merlin's job before Merlin came on the scene, some time after Ranulph left. And that was not this. That was certainly not this.

Arthur slid his dagger back into his booth. His fringe was obscuring his eyes and he'd moved so that Ranulph couldn't see his face. He didn't offer any reply to Ranulph's remark. “I never meant to be unfair.”

“You never were unfair.” And that was the truth. A shared past, shared intimacies, the face of a lover in a moment of passion, were things to be cherished but not claimed. 

Merlin moved, his sigh a rattle more than anything else. As quick as thought, Arthur was on his knees and flipping Merlin onto his back so he could breathe more easily. He bent over Merlin, and though Ranulph couldn't be sure, he suspected Arthur had brushed his lips against Merlin's forehead. “He's burning hot,” Arthur said. “We need Gaius.”

Gaius was certainly the man they needed, but Ranulph had run a border garrison and knew a thing or two about attending sick men. It went with the job. Getting new troops was nigh impossible, and you had better keep those you had in good health. Even a soldier became a bit of a physician in those circumstances. “If you get me a servant to fetch water and rags, I think I can make his temperature go down.”

Arthur looked at him with such hope that Ranulph was suddenly fearful of disappointing him. Because he saw, he truly saw, what Merlin's death would mean to Arthur, and he didn't want to be the one to cause that to happen.

“Leon!” Arthur called out, voice rough. “Get your servant. We need water.”

Ranulph rolled his sleeves up.

 

***** 

Sir Leon didn't wake because of the early morning sun in his eyes. He woke because the King was shaking him. “It's dawn,” he said. “Let's get the men on the move.”

Leon took in Arthur's jutting jaw and knew he'd better comply as fast as possible, the more so since the lazy person of the group, Gwaine, was already up and about, donning gloves and making sure his scabbard was in place. Leon wouldn't be any less prompt than Gwaine.

Right, Merlin wasn't fine. That was the reason for everybody’s solicitude. “I'll be up and about in a moment, Sire.”

Sir Leon dashed into the thick of the forest, quickly relieved himself and had a wash by the stream. He had no leisure to do more for he knew Arthur was in a hurry. When he made it back to camp, it was to see Arthur lift Merlin in his arms so he could lay him down on the stretcher Godric had prepared.

Merlin, for all that he was a lanky man and shorter than Leon, wasn't light by any means. Percival was the only one who'd ever carried him without a complaint. Arthur, for all that he was strong, would surely feel the strain. Currently, he was wobbling under the weight, the tendons in his neck straining, his grip tight around Merlin's shoulders and knees.

“My Lord.” Sir Leon advanced on him. “Please, let me.”

Arthur grunted, resettling Merlin in his arms. “No need.”

He pouted through it, and though Leon followed him close in case he needed help, Arthur was the one who made the distance and put Merlin down on the stretcher. Leon was so relieved the King hadn't thrown his back that at first he wasn't struck by Merlin's limp sprawl. be to. But when he did realise, he found he didn't like the notion one bit.

Merlin was always a very vital person, very active even if in that bumbling way of his, and even when he complained about the tasks he was charged with. Seeing him like this made a difference. It made Leon uneasy. 

As Arthur crouched by Merlin's side, Sir Leon watched. Arthur didn't do or say anything. He just stood still for a few moments, his jaw locked taut, ‘til he shook himself, ruffled Merlin's hair and stood. He strode to his mount with a stormy face and mounted a horse he'd made jittery by way of his own behaviour. Horses sensed that kind of thing.

It was Leon's turn to kneel by Merlin's stretcher. Seeing him so pale and lifeless, lids stretched thin and slightly purple, was just so sad. Something needed to be done.

Sir Leon found the flask that hung from his belt, freed it and levered Merlin's head up so he'd be able to drink. Merlin didn't respond past a little snuffled sound and saying, “Arthur.” Though he tried to drink, he half-choked on some water.

“I've only seen him so poorly once,” said Percival, crouching on the other side of the stretcher. 

“When the Dorocha got him?” Leon said.

“Yeah,” said Percival. “It hurts to see.”

Leon left his flask on the stretcher, close enough to Merlin's hand that he could make a grab for it if he woke and was thirsty. His heavy breathing and deathly pallor mixed suggested he wouldn't wake soon. But Leon left the drinking vessel with him all the same.

“I hope he recovers.”

Percival nodded. “Yeah, Merlin's a good friend.”

“Have you done chatting?” came Arthur's snappy voice. “We're on the move.”

Percival and Leon exchanged a look, then picked themselves up and slid into their respective saddles.

**** 

Gwaine had been putting his spurs to his horse's sides for the best part of the morning when they finally saw the fork in the road.

Arthur called a halt and hopped off the saddle. Thinking of how badly off Merlin was, Gwaine followed suit and made for his friend. He needed to see with his own eyes that he was holding on, even though witnessing his suffering hurt so much. But Arthur beat him to it.

Preceding even Godric, Arthur marched towards the stretcher and undid the bindings tying it to his horse. He secured them to Gwaine's. When he'd tested the binds, he straightened and gave Gwaine a poniard.

“I'm armed to the teeth already,” Gwaine said. “You know that.”

“The woods are crawling with Saxons, One more won't hurt,” Arthur told him, offering him the blade once again.

Gwaine accepted it. He wouldn't be doing Merlin any favours if he didn't. Merlin came first; surely before riling Arthur. And extra weapons were fun. And. “Don't worry. I'm the right man for this mission.”

“Gwaine--” Arthur started.

“Calm down, Sire,” Gwaine said. “I'll get Merlin to Gaius even if hordes of Saxons come at me.”

Arthur was looking at him as if he was ticked off but couldn't quite say because he needed someone to get Merlin to Camelot. “Take Percival.”

“You need Percival,” said Gwaine. “You can't defeat that monster without him.”

“You think you can take on a solo mission like this without help?”

Gwaine faked a shrug and cocky smile. “Who better than me?”

He wasn't sure he'd convinced Arthur but knew that Arthur could do nothing else but entrust Merlin to him. He had to if he wanted to slay the monster that had already preyed on the surrounding populace. “If--” Arthur didn't seem to want to articulate that if, but he continued on as if he had, “You'll be responsible.”

Gwaine saluted but was well aware of what it was that he had to do.

Arthur was nodding to himself. “Get there as fast as you can.”

“I will.”

“And--”

“I know.”

“Still, good luck.”

This time they both turned when Merlin woke. For his part Merlin looked feebly around, then tried to get up. As before, they both acted in unison, dashing towards Merlin to make sure he wouldn't actually go for a walkabout when his skin was so hot you could have fried eggs on it. 

Being as weak as a newborn kitten, Merlin wasn't difficult to tackle. He was, however, difficult to pacify. “Let me come,” he mumbled. “Please, let me. Let me. I...” There was a pause, as if Merlin had lost track of what he wanted to say, a hiss, and then the rest of what he meant came out, “I don't want to go to Camelot.”

“No,” said Arthur. “I'm not letting you do this to yourself.”

Gwaine wanted to defuse Merlin's determination with a joke, but found he couldn't quite. “Merlin, you can't help anybody like this. Don't be rash, my friend.”

Merlin scowled, but his struggles died down. He had no strength. Gwaine didn't feel too good about benefiting from that, but he did make use of Merlin's moment of weakness to follow his orders and start on his mission. He climbed on horseback. 

“Set out before he wakes again.” Arthur gave him a lopsided smile that didn't hide how tense he was. “Or--”

“I think I know Merlin.” Gwaine did. He and Merlin had been on many a quest together, through thick and thin, and if there was one thing Gwaine was aware of was how stupidly loyal Merlin could be. The stubborn man would likely try joining Arthur again if Gwaine didn't put some distance between them.

Not wasting further time, Gwaine encouraged his horse on and parted ways from Arthur and his fellow knights. 

He rode for hours, sticking to a path that was less well known and less direct than the other one he could have used. He did it because he knew there was less chance of encountering marauders on this stretch of road than on others. But that didn't mean it was an ideal path. He was wasting time and was sure not to get to Camelot before dark. 

Before long Merlin woke and started making a fuss. 

Before Gwaine could dismount Merlin had wobbled upright and started sneaking away. Gwaine managed to rein in his horse in time but even so he'd been close to losing Merlin. Getting him back wasn't difficult. Gwaine didn't think Merlin was exactly aware of a lot of things – where he was, what time it was, or why he felt so bad – but he did remember about the monster and Arthur.

Gwaine had an easy time restraining him, at least at first. Merlin was a determined little bugger, pushing and kicking and raving about needing to go, but he was also having trouble standing. 

Keeping Merlin on a short leash, however, proved distracting or Gwaine would have heard the noise made by the group of robbers. He would have. He'd roamed the forests of Albion on his lonesome for years before meeting Merlin (and Arthur) and had never been caught unawares. (Except that time he was drunk.)

“A knight of Camelot, alone,” the head robber said.

Gwaine whirled round and counted his enemies. He saw three. He'd rather have faced two than a full threesome but could still deal. He'd faced worse odds and he was a good man at arms, if he said so himself. “Sorry, mate,” said Gwaine. “I don't find you the least bit attractive.”

“Give us your horse, weapons.” The bandit eyed the pouch in which Gwaine kept the small change he used when he went to the tavern. “And that and we might let you walk.”

Gwaine unsheathed sword and dagger. “I think you attacked the wrong person.”

The head bandit smirked. “A lone knight? Easy prey.”

As the head bandit launched himself at him, Gwaine pushed Merlin behind him. Merlin stumbled backwards and fell on his arse. Gwaine would have helped but couldn't. He'd just crossed sword with the mouthy head bandit. 

Freeing himself from the opening impasse, the bandit lifted his weapon and took a swipe. Gwaine stepped back, blocked it, then took a swipe across the man's chest. He didn't connect, but he'd bought some manoeuvring space. The bandit's blade rang against his broadsword, echoing through the woods.

A bandit this man may be but he knew how to fight and he knew how to sneak around a knight's defences. At this point there was only one thing to be done. Fight dirty.

He feinted, the bandit fell for it, and was struck hard on the arm.

That was when the second man came at him. Gwaine slashed at him with his main gauche, kicked him on the knee and caused him to fall back. In time for bandit three to come at him and for the head bandit to recover. And come at him too. 

This was bad. Gwaine focused on the head bandit because, though now wounded, he was a good swordsman, but couldn't afford not to keep an eye on the other two as well. Ha, life would have been easier if ragamuffins and wastrels never paired up. Fortunately for him though, just as he lunged at the head bandit, the other two knocked themselves out. 

Gwaine didn't know how that happened; he only saw the second bandit stumble into a root of some kind as he charged him. Instead of getting at Gwaine, he scrambled into his companion and accidentally stabbed him.

As the man's pained howls resounded, Gwaine disposed of the head bandit, knocking him out with a pommel to the face. The second bandit suffered a similar fate though it wasn't of Gwaine's doing. A branch fell from the nearest tree and brained the man, making it possible for Gwaine to high-tail it.

So as to be quick and avoid being overtaken by the bandits that were currently out cold he had to give up on the stretcher and mount Merlin before him on his horse. Somehow Merlin seemed even weaker and more malleable than before, so there was that little advantage to bless the heavens for.

Still you never knew what might happen if the bandits stirred. Waste more time, probably. Time Merlin didn't have to spare considering how bad he was getting.

“Damn,” said Gwaine as he spurred his horse. 

This was the first time he was struck by the thought Merlin might not make it. 

His horse had never galloped so fast.

Even so, when night fell, he had to call it a day. Pressing on in the dark could well mean death and Gwaine wanted to preserve Merlin from it, not rush him into it.

He made camp, propped Merlin up against a tree, and prepared a hasty meal made up of bread, dried meat and a lump of cheese. If this had been any other day and he and Merlin were together in the forest he'd have snared his friend a rabbit and made a stew but leaving him alone was impossible now. Not with the forest crawling with all types of renegades and Merlin made defenceless by a fever Gwaine had never seen the likes of.

Despite his resolution not to leave Merlin, he did have to slog to the nearest stream to get some water. Merlin needed to drink and Gwaine couldn't let him go thirsty at such a moment. Even paranoia had its limits and killing Merlin because he wasn't hydrated – fancy word he'd learnt from Gaius – was as bad an idea as leaving him to fend for himself while he was ill.

He'd just filled a skin with water and was traipsing back to their temporary camp when he saw a figure recline over Merlin. Gwaine dropped the water skin in favour of freeing his sword from its scabbard. “Step away from him,” he threatened.

The figure did back off and in doing so revealed the folds of a travelling dress and long tresses. A woman. Gwaine instinctively relaxed. He could take her, he thought.

“I'm not here to hurt your friend,” the woman said. Though she'd backed away she didn't seem to feel threatened by Gwaine baring his sword. “I'm a healer,” she added. “I travel from village to village to help the sick. I was passing by and heard the rattles of your friend. I think he has pneumonia.”

Gwaine might have known nothing of healing, but he knew that was bad. Merlin needed someone who knew what was going on and the woman didn't seem to be armed and didn't give off a menacing vibe. “Can you help him?”

She crouched by Merlin's side, palming his cheek. “Yes,” she said. “I think I can.”

Her hand disappeared behind the folds of her cloak then a blade glinted. Gwaine was about to hurl his main gauche at her when he saw that she wasn't aiming the dagger she wielded at Merlin. She was shaving bark off the tree.

“What are you doing?” Gwaine asked with a frown.

“If you get me some of that water--” She let her eyes fall on the water skin Gwaine had dropped. “And boil it, I can prepare a potion that will help.”

“Are you sure it will?”

The woman studied Merlin more closely, then closed her eyes. When she re-opened them they sparked. “He's going to be fine. But he needs my potion.”

Gwaine did as he was told. He boiled the water and watched the woman pestle the bark into a fine powder she dropped into the boiling liquid. When she pronounced the potion done, she poured some of it into a cup and walked to Merlin.

Once again, she sat by his side. She roused him, though Gwaine couldn't tell how she'd succeeded since he himself hadn't been able to from the moment the bandits had made their appearance, and coaxed the cup to his lips.

Merlin opened his eyes, the circles under them and their wet brightness making him appear more unearthly than any man had any business looking. “Trust me, Emrys,” she said, getting Merlin's name wrong. “Drink this.”

Merlin turned his head aside. “I--” He coughed up a lung. “I don't know you.”

“We're like,” she murmured, leaning closer to Merlin's ear to whisper something Gwaine couldn't hear. 

Whatever she said worked, for Merlin drank the whole of his potion, even if he had to be helped to do it. When he was done he offered a pale grin and husky, “Thank you,” to the woman and then fell promptly asleep.

The woman rose from her crouch and walked over to Gwaine. She handed him the empty cup. “When he wakes give him the rest of the potion I made,” she said. “I can do no more for him, for I have to attend to patients in the next village but one. But don't forget the second dose.”

“I won't, my lady,” Gwaine said, bowing with a flourish.

“I'm not a lady,” the woman said.

Gwaine quirked a brow. “May I have your name then?”

“Ragnell,” the woman said. “My name is Ragnell, Sir Knight.”

Before Gwaine could flirt, she was gone, but at least she'd helped Merlin.

Not long afterwards Gwaine settled down to sleep, though he kept his sword and a second dose of the potion by his side. Lighter of heart since he'd noticed that Merlin was breathing more easily than before, he snored off.

When he woke again the light of the sun hit his face and a completely wet Merlin grinned down at him like a mad thing. “Hello, Gwaine,” he said, before crumpling forwards, tired and done for ( why Gwaine couldn't understand), but with his proud grin still firmly in place.

“What the hell? Did you fall into the stream? Merlin!”

****

Arthur stalked into Gaius' workroom, calling out the physician's name.

Gaius descended the steps leading to Merlin's little hide-hole of a room, and when he saw him he inclined his head. “Sire.”

“How is he?” Arthur asked. 

“Merlin was fortunate in that he met a healer on the way,” said Gaius. “He suffered from a lungs infection, but he's past the worst.”

Arthur parsed that in his mind. “Does that mean he'll recover?”

Gaius' eyebrows went down. That was the equivalent of a smile coming from Gaius. “Yes, sire. Merlin's young and strong.”

Arthur's muscles, which had worked themselves into a bunch, uncoiled. “If it's all right, I'd like to see him.”

“He's sleeping it off,” Gaius said. “You might want to try seeing him later when he's more alert.”

Arthur climbed the stairs to Merlin's room and placed a hand on the door. “I'd rather stay and wait for him to wake.”

Arthur sat quietly at Merlin's bedside for more than an hour, but Merlin slept on without sensing his presence. He would have worried more hadn't he Gaius' words to fall back on or if the quality of Merlin's slumber wasn't remarkably different from the one he'd displayed when ill. That had been a torpor Arthur couldn't shake Merlin from. Instead Merlin was now tossing, turning, smacking his lips, and mumbling. This was Merlin. He always slept like this. 

Looking for something to do as he waited, Arthur took a turn round the room, frowned at the dust covering most surfaces, picked up an apple someone had left on Merlin's makeshift bedside table and stupidly dropped it.

He was bending over to recover it when Merlin startled him by saying. “Fine view I'm waking to.”

Arthur straightened and turned around, an apple in one of his hands, the other hand going to his hip. “Fine, go ahead, have no respect for my majesty.”

“Bums are seldom majestic, sire.” 

Arthur put the apple back down and pulled a chair towards the bed. “How are you, really?”

Merlin burrowed a hand under his pillow and pulled his blanket up to his chin with the other. “Uh, not that great, but better.”

Arthur leant over and tried to kiss Merlin, but Merlin backed away. “You might get what I have too.”

“No, I won't,” Arthur said. “First because I'm hardy and secondly because I didn't fall head first into a freezing lake.”

“But--”

Arthur fit his lips to Merlin and Merlin let his bottom lip catch between his. Soft presses of lips on lips continued for a while until Merlin opened his mouth halfway, and Arthur slipped his tongue inside, stroking Merlin's with his. 

His arms went around Merlin's waist, going tighter as he found how still fever hot Merlin was, forcing them closer. It was good, feeling Merlin like this. Arthur liked enjoyed basking in physical proofs of closeness. They came easier than other things.

When the kiss ended Arthur traced Merlin's mouth with his finger, all the while gazing into Merlin's eyes for proof that he was all right. Merlin was a bit of a liar – mostly about his chores – and Arthur didn't trust him to tell him if he wasn't well.

Merlin claimed he was lazy, but if you restrained him from attending Arthur as he usually did he'd whinge he was all right when he most patently wasn't. He wouldn't do it about a chore, but Merlin would fight to tag along in any other circumstance.

Yet he looked better. He wasn't shaking and he didn't look half so frail as he had in the past few days. The light in his eyes was bright. The way Arthur liked it. 

“You didn't ask about the monster,” Arthur said. “How I valiantly...”

“Yeah, I'm sure you wouldn't be back already if the monster hadn't exploded,” Merlin said, making Arthur's forehead wrinkle in thought before he kissed him and chased all thought from Arthur's brain. “I can do without you preening. Now let's keep doing this.”

 

**** 

“So how are we doing it?” Arthur asked, looking at the half cat, half fish that was emerging from the waters of the lake. “How do we kill it?”

“As we did the last time,” Merlin said.

Arthur's head snapped to Merlin. “You weren't there the last time.” His eyes widened. “Oh, this is another one of your kills that I thought was mine, isn't it?”

Arthur could accept not being a dragon slayer – he'd come to terms – but now it turned out he hadn't defeated the Cath Bawlg either.

Was there a mythical monster he'd actually stopped?

Merlin grinned goofily, too much so for a man faced with a shrieking monster. “Yeah, thanks to the sorceress who healed me, I sneaked away from Gwaine and back to the lake, enchanted your sword, and allowed you to kill it.” Merlin tilted his head towards the present incarnation of the Cath Bawlg. It'll implode again if you hit it right after I spell the sword.”

Arthur remembered a moment from his past in Camelot; an image clear as day made its way back to him. He'd been in Merlin's room where Merlin was recovering after falling prey to a lungs disease. He'd wondered why Merlin hadn't asked how the monster had fared and the answer Merlin had given him. “I should have guessed back then. You practically slipped. You said 'exploded' and you couldn't have known because you weren't there. I didn't--”

Merlin mussed up his hair. “Did I slip? I remember the worst fever ever. So I don't exactly remember what I said. Be content I dispatched the creature.”

The Cath Bawlg roared, cutting short their conversation. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, trainers digging into the ground to find better purchase for an attack. “Shut up and help me kill the monster – again.”

The End.


End file.
